Monday, February 28, 2005

One procrastination, under god. . .

Where are moose and squirrel?

An astute reader might notice that there hasn't been much actual reading here the last couple of days. Trust me when I tell you that I'd much rather be writing for you, wandering blog readers, than doing what I'm really doing, which is a shitload of writing for my (paying) job. I am having slightly more than zero fun (just because I have to pee sooner or later, and peeing is always fun).

So, in an attempt to avoid my given and inevitable task for a minute or two, I give you Fearless Leader in Jim's office. I have his equally evil twin in my office. We're a cute couple, in a burn-the-beanie-babies kind of way.

Self-Portrait Thursday

1. My name is Katy2. I live in Flint, Michigan, and I'm a system administrator.3. The first time I encountered the Internet was in college, probablywhen I was about 27. Must not have made too much of an impression,'cause I can't pinpoint the event. But I've certainly becomeaddicted since.4. My favorite sandwich is a Big John's sub, vegetarian on white,hold the olives and oil, with extra mushrooms.5. On a Sunday evening, I can be found watching "The Sopranos" and"Deadwood" when HBO deigns to show them, and otherwise lounging aboutthe house and whining 'cause the weekend's over.

Bonus Information:I keep a size 7/8 miniskirt in my closet, just to torture myself. It will never, ever fit over my thighs again, much less my Twinkie-fied ass.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Please speak cleeeeearly

It was my pleasure to bring bad dog Snickers to the vet's office for his annual round of shots last summer. And when I say "my pleasure" I mean, "God, I hope they call me soon 'cause he's bein' a big-ass whiny baby out here!" For a dog who's 65 pounds and can look mean when need be, he can whine like grannie's tea kettle when he's in an unfamiliar situation. The boy has issues. He could probably benefit from dog psychiatry.

Idiot that I am, I'd forgotten to change into jeans, and my black work pants were a magnet for all the fur that was flying off Snickers in his nervous state. By the time someone finally summoned us, the bottom half of me looked like a Muppet. We settled into the exam room; well, I settled and Snickers panted and paced and sent fur flying off his body in wave after wave.

I was fairly amazed at all the fur that was wafting around the room, and was just wondering how long until the dog was bald when the college-aged vet's assistant came in and approached Snickers in a friendly way. She asked me how Snickers was doing.

"He's okay," I answered casually, "but he's sheddin' all over the place!" I was halfway apologizing for the hair all over the room.

She got the strangest look on her face, took a little bit of a step back, and looked down at Snickers. "Does he have diarrhea?"

Huh? Where did that come from? "No," said I, puzzled.

She continued to give us both a look I couldn't place. "But he went in the house?"

Still puzzled: "Well, he does sometimes in protest, but not lately. . ."

And then it began to dawn on me. It was probably all about my bad enunciation. I started again: "No, I said he's SHED-DING all over the place. Shedding fur."

Yup, that's exactly what she'd thought, that I'd said He's shitting all over the place. You can't imagine the look of relief that washed over her face, and how she was suddenly willing to be close to Snickers again.

Chair thief

Friday, February 18, 2005

Joanie loves tchotchkes

Would you be surprised if I confessed that I'm not quite normal? I'm pretty sure I'm harmless, unless you're dancing with me, but I've always been just a little "off" in the brain.

For instance, when I was in kindergarten, it came time for Show and Tell, and oh my god, I hadn't brought anything! That just wouldn't do, so I pinched my earlobe until it bled. Then, when Mrs. Kiel called on me, I stood up and proudly announced, "My ear is bleeding!" She was all freaked out, thinking I'd had an accident, and asked me what had happened. "I pinched myself really hard!" I replied cheerfully, dripping blood on my shoulder. It's a good thing I didn't go to Catholic school, 'cause they'd have had me in the exorcism rec room faster than you can say Your mother sucks cock in hell!

I didn't try to be different, but it just seemed like my choices were never the same as those of my peers. When all the other girls in the sixth grade were swooning over Barry Manilow -- and I think there are still some of them who aren't in on the joke yet -- I was grabbing for a hand-me-down copy of Frank Zappa's Apostrophe. When the wholesome girls joined the cheerleading squad or the debate team in high school, I was out in some alley downtown, smokin' Camels and pukin' cheap wine.

Jim knew I was like that when he met me, and I didn't try to change it or make a secret of it when we started dating. He claimed to be attracted to my creativity and spontanaeity. So I don't know why he seemed so taken aback when I started carrying the Gumby and Pokey figurines around with me.

Gumby and Pokey were small, inoffensive, and fit into my pocket. So why wouldn't an adult carry them everywhere? There might not have been a problem if I had just kept the fellas in my coat. But no, I felt that my little friends should be welcome wherever I was, and would set them on the table in front of me in restaurants, at the bar, at wedding receptions, you name it. I bore easily, you see, and having figurines handy satisfies my short attention span. It's all perfectly logical and not the least bit crazy. Nope.

We were frequent visitors to the Capital Coney Island in those days, and the waitresses there were openly delighted by Gumby and Pokey. I'm sure they thought I was about three teetering steps away from a helmet and diaper, but since I wasn't making trouble or drooling, they seemed to have a good time with my table toys. Yes, I know that sounds dirty. And Gumby just makes it dirtier. Say hello to my little frien'! Even now, nearly 20 years after the fact, the old waitress who still works there refers to me as "the Gumby girl." (Note to waitress if you're reading this: I don't mean you're old, I just mean you worked there in the old days. Yeah. That's the ticket)

Jim, unlike the waitresses, grew less and less amused by our tiny yet perpetual dinner companions. He began to hint, then downright request, that I leave my proof of retardation home when we dined out or bar hopped. Silly me, I just kept on my merry path to social oblivion, and never saw the warning signs. I never should have brought my diminutive, bendable pals to the Checkpoint.

Back in my 7-Eleven days, the Checkpoint was a fairly inoffensive, inexpensive place to get sloppy drunk and stumble around the dance floor. Jim and I went that night because Checkpoint was the closest bar that wasn't playing country music. As we settled in at our table, I automatically pulled Gumby and Pokey out of my pocket and set them on the table in front of me, arranging them just so to maximize their attractiveness in the glow of the tabletop candle. Jim casually mentioned that he had asked me very nicely to please leave those at home. I just kind of shrugged. That's when he must have snapped.

Before I could react, Jim had both the asparagus man and his orange equine longtime companion in his hand. I watched in horror as he dipped Gumby into the flame of the candle until black, stanky smoke billowed out. Pokey also got a baptism by fire, and he didn't exactly come up lovin' the Lord. Jim laid the newly crispy critters on the table in front of me, sat back, and arched an eyebrow as if to say, "Buy all the Gumbies and Pokies you want. They're all toast. All of 'em."

It was a heartbreaking loss, and I carefully gathered up my mini burn victims and hid them from the toy-burning ogre. Who knows what kind of desecration he had in mind for them next?

The moral of this story is: Keep your tchotchkes in your pocket!

ps: For the record, I kept them, and they were used on one of our wedding cakes (next to the words "Let me stand next to your fire").

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Freud would have a field day

When I promised y'all "pillow talk" yesterday, I fully intended to share some of the interesting things I've said in my sleep, but then it felt kind of redundant when I saw a posting on the same topic over at Dooce. So I'll save that one for another day. But so as not to reneg on my vow of pillow talk, I will instead recount some strange dreams I've had.

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I dreamt a couple of years ago that my childhood friend Doreen, whom I had not seen since high school graduation some 20 years before, showed up at my house to visit me and meet Jim. That's not so strange, because I'd known her since grade school. The weird part was her hairdo. Her hair had been cut into antlers. Think that's not distracting? I woke up before I could examine it as closely as I'd have liked.

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When we had Mickey, a German Shepherd/Norwegian Elkhound bundle of blundering doggie love, I had a dream that we had moved to a loft apartment in New York. Because we were moving from a house into a loft, we had to have a poodle instead of the relatively cow-like dog at the end of our leash. So, to fool the landlord, I shrank Mickey down to palm size and carried him in my pocket. Then, when we were safely in our apartment, I returned him to his normal size and gave him a "special" haircut. I mean really special. I gave the poor dog, in essence, a bouffant. That way, you see, he would blend in with the poodles.

Yes, in case anyone wondered, I do have a bouffant fixation.

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The strangest dream I've ever had in my life, though, came to me at about age nine. The first thing I remember is being alone in a huge, dark office building, much like the old building where my dad used to work downtown in Grand Haven, in the old Story and Clark piano factory. I was wandering by myself, and I steered toward the only light I saw, the panel on the elevator. It wasn't like a regular elevator panel; it was more like the cheesy depiction of a computer kerchunking away on the original Star Trek, with lots of colored dots flashing in random patterns to signify that processing was goin' down.

Before I could reach the panel, the elevator doors opened, and as the sickly light from inside the car spilled out into the dark hallway, two figures emerged and came toward me slowly. It appeared to be two people, but they were dressed as giant aerosol cans. What made it really freaky to me was that the lids on the cans were loose, and as they walked, the lids made a clacking sound that had me frozen in terror. The Castanets of Doom.

Next thing I knew, I was on a table in some kind of an operating theatre, and there was a mad scientist preparing to work his evil art on me. You'd think a mad scientist wouldn't have to send clacking cans to do his dirty work, but who knows what these fuckers are thinkin'? So, the mad scientist had abducted me for experimental purposes, and things weren't lookin' so good for me. I was rolled over onto my stomach (stop it, you guys -- I was only nine and not having those dreams yet), and I waited for it. . .

Oh my god, he put a joy buzzer in my ass! And I could feel it! It was perhaps the most vivid physical sensation I've ever had in a dream, and that includes all the ones about Karl Malden with a turkey baster.

I woke with great surprise and widening of eyes, and tried to shake the creepiness and disorientation of the dream. Thing was, I could still feel where that joy buzzer had been. Hmmmm. A thorough inspection revealed that one of the buttons in my mattress had come dislodged from the bed, and had somehow managed to lodge itself snugly in my ass.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

I got somethin' to say!

It's official. No NHL season. Nada. The news has put a sharp skate through Jim's heart. When the blood runs, it will be the exact same shade as the Red Wings' away uniforms (or was it home uniforms last year? Ah, too long ago. . .).

Jim is now officially wearing black underpants. Black because he is in mourning for the sport that makes his heart beat. Underpants because everyone involved in this non-deal can kiss his ass, especially Gary Bettman and Bob Goodenow.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

You might, rabbit, you might

One of my pleasures in life, as I leave skidmarks on the road through middle age, is using age-inappropriate slang. Just by walking into a room and using words like shizzle and frontin', I make young people squirm in embarrassment, and leave my peers wondering if I'm:a) seriousb) insanec) going through mid-life crisisd) getting better prescriptions than they are

I found out, though, that not all old folks avail themselves of the dregs of pop culture just for the fun of the shock value like some of us.

A few of us had gathered over at SA's place one afternoon, and were making plans for a group night out. SA hadn't slept much the night before, and she looked like she could nod off at any moment.

"I'm soooo damn tired," she said through a yawn. "I'm gonna have to put some teabags on my eyes."

My head snapped up and I caught the eye of TJ, who was sitting across from me. Did SA just say teabag? We both stifled a laugh, which SA must have seen, and she felt the need to explain.

"When I worked at the pet store," she continued, digging herself deeper, "we used to put teabags on the baby rabbits' eyes to get them to open."

TJ and I were completely incapable of containing ourselves by then, and we were both laughing so hard it's a miracle that no pants were pissed. SA was completely puzzled, as she hadn't meant the rabbit story to be funny. I kept trying to get enough breath to explain why that visual was so strikingly hilarious -- I mean, come on, the poor little teabagged bunnies! -- but it was five full minutes before I could breathe enough to speak coherently.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

For your eyes only

Since our brains are sharing the same wireless connection, Jim and I often happen to be looking in the same direction when bizarre shit happens. We see all kinds of things that no one else witnesses. Maybe we're just freak magnets.

It actually started on our first date. We'd gone to see Bob Seger at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit (with Georgia Satellites opening), and then had a few drinks at a now-defunct jazz club in Flint. After the Underground closed for the night, we decided to cruise over to Dort Highway and get some dessert (I mean ice cream, not prostitutes) at the Kountry Kettle. As we pulled into a parking spot, a young man came dashing past the truck. Well, maybe "dashing" is the wrong word -- it was more of a fast wobble on Cuban heels. He was clad in skintight slacks and a three-quarter-length unbuttoned fur coat, with no shirt on (it was February), and he was sobbing like a bitch with PMS at an Oprah marathon. Jim and I exchanged a wide-eyed, "Did you see that, too?" kind of look, just before we caught the rest of the story. A moment later, another young man, rakish in a mod lavender suit, hurried past us, shouting "Wait! Waaaaait!", presumably to the barechested bawler. Jim and I once again shared raised eyebrows, and then, when we were sure there were no more floats in the parade, we shared our first uncontrollable giggles as a couple. I guess I wouldn't have been so surprised if I'd known there was a gay bar across the street from the restaurant.

Then there was the time we attended a drunken bonfire party at Mike and Shirley's house. The more Mike drank, the more animated he became, and after he finished all the beer he'd brought outside, he sprang up and hustled his way over to the house to get some more. Unfortunately, he didn't notice that the screen door was closed, and he hit that fucker so hard it threw him back on his ass. I'm talkin' feet off the ground, temporarily airborne bounce action. I saw every second of it, and as I turned to Jim, I could tell that he, too, had seen the whole beautifully awful thing unfold. We shared a good belly laugh that no one else understood, but what else is new? Mike had screen grid lines on his face when he came back with the beer.

And what set of stories would be complete without a heartwarming tale involving children? We were visiting some friends whose blended family includes four boys between the ages of 8 and 11 years old. Can you say, "Recipe for hell"? All the boys were home when we visited, and we navigated our way around the rambunctious lads and a large, mellow Boxer dog. The kids would disappear into their bedroom, then would burst out occasionally to announce something like "They just showed boobs on Jerry Springer!" We had this relative peace for about a half an hour before the boys decided they all had to be in the front room with us. They raced back and forth with the dog, and finally ended up in a heap, dog included, between my chair and Jim's. The Boxer was on top of the pile, and she rolled over onto her back to show us all her feminine glory. Then, in a moment that seemed surreal and strangely eternal, I saw this little hand reach around from under the mass of kids and dog, and the little hand proceeded to give one of the Boxer's jumbo gumdrop-sized nipples a hearty squeeze betwixt thumb and forefinger. My eyes met Jim's, and there was an unspoken message in the air between us: Only we saw this, so let's not bust the little pervert, no matter how hard we laugh. And, to our credit, we never gave up the goods on the dog molestor.

I'll put up with that, but if I ever go over there and see one of the kids with his pants down behind the dog, I'm gonna have to say somethin'.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

No, I'm not taking the camera

So, I found out yesterday that Jim got us a jacuzzi room for the night at a local hotel. Doesn't that sound relaxing? Right now, though, I am anything but relaxed as I pack a suitcase with a night's worth of, you know, clothes and stuff you don't want to know about. Why didn't I do this last night?

Anyway, since it's supposed to be a romantic evening (nudge nudge wink wink), and the room has no high-speed access, I shall not be posting anyting tonight. I swear I'll try to put something up during the day tomorrow (big night out for us tomorrow night, too).

In the meantime, if you find yourself dejected that there is no new post here, I suggest you seek professional help immediately. If it is after hours, and there is no professional help available, then fondle your genitals until the earth shakes. Really, that's the next best thing to professional help.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Bon Ton Groo-Vay

In honor of Mardi Gras, which is a really just an excuse to get stinkin' drunk and show your tits, I'd like to share some of my impressions of New Orleans.

I had never seen a person walk down the street at a fairly normal pace whilst vomiting profusely, not until my first visit to Bourbon Street. In the time I watched this guy with horrified fascination, he must've donated at least three pitchers to the party in the gutters. Even worse, I saw him shortly thereafter with a fresh beer in hand. I waved at the beer and shouted, "Be seein' you soon!"

Sometimes touching human dramas unfold right before your eyes; such is the magic of Bourbon Street. As Jim and I watched from the stability of a blessedly sturdy lamp post, a pair of folks who seemed to be mother and son -- he didn't look to be more than sixteen or so -- wandered into the vicinity of a drag bar across the road. They were both blonde and barefoot, and mom was definitely going for the Ellie Mae Clampett look, down to the hairdo and the red checkered halter top. It probably looked a little more Ellie Mae on her about fifteen years ago. As trailer mom and junior paused to watch the revelers pass, a very large black drag queen made her way purposefully toward the barefoot boy, and as junior slipped his arm in a most familar manner around Dragzilla, it was apparent that they were, uh, acquainted. Now, some of the performers in the drag bar hang out by the door to drum up business, and the ones they post out front are the most successful transformations. I was born female, and I will never, ever look as good as some of those drag queens. Bitches. Dragzilla, however, was pretty obviously a hulking man in a dress and wig, but junior didn't seem to mind a bit. Then mom turned around, and immediately took a most disapproving attitude. By that, I mean she started shouting shrill obscenities, and then this little hillbilly woman with no shoes began to chase the giant drag queen down Bourbon Street, with possibly the only glass bottle on the block clutched in her hand and brandished for immediate smackdown. Dragzilla, I must say, made amazing speed while wearing heels, but the barefoot cuntessa was bound to gain on her. Luckily, brains conquered speed, and Dragzilla was able to duck into another bar (probably one that required shoes) and lost the little mama who was so ready to do battle armed with a backwash-coated Bud bottle and a hearty rebel yell.

I'm not sure I would have actually gone through with it, because I'd hate to end up on late-night TV as part of the Frumpy Old Bitches Gone Wild video promotion, but I was kind of half hoping someone would give me the traditional "Show me your tits!" greeting. As much time as I spent hoofing it through the French Quarter, no one seemed inclined to encourage my brief and partial nudity. And really, I was okay with it, until the day I was standing next to a 70-year-old woman, and the guys on the balcony were begging to see her hooters for some sweet beads. I, apparently, was Officially Chopped Liver.

Enjoy your Fat Tuesday, all y'all. Make some King cake, toss some beads, drink enough beer for a whole Krewe, show your tits (and I don't just mean the girls), eat a dozen paczkis, make sweet love (or engage in hot anal sex, if sweet love is out of the question), make sweet love to a pazcki. . .and, most of all, let the good times fuckin' roll!

Monday, February 07, 2005

It has been twenty-eight years since my last confession. . .

Shameful things to which I will admit at this particular moment:

I still like Madonna's first two albums. And I have them both. On vinyl.

One time in second grade, I came to school dressed in a little plaid jacket with matching bow tie, and carrying a little briefcase, because. . .who the fuck knows why? All I know is, Mom let me leave the house that way, and people were still reminding me of it when I was old enough to try getting laid. Needless to say, that didn't help the cause. And before someone brings it up because I didn't expressly mention it -- yes, I was wearing pants with the outfit. Mom may have wanted me laughed at, but she probably didn't want me molested. I think. She certainly kept me from being molested in high school.

When I had Nudgie, a long-haired cat, I used to cut her fur into purposely preposterous and asymmetrical shapes, just for my own amusement. Jim always called me the Picasso of Hairdressers. My personal favorite: one side of the face smooth, the other side coming out to a sweeping point, and her chest mane cut like Bozo's neck ruff. Good times!

I was nearly 25 years old before I got a driver's license. Sweet whistlin' Jesus, how did I ever live before that?

Since I've been sucked into the surreal whirlwind that is blogging, I've almost completely ignored my music projects. This may or may not be a bad thing.

You don't want to be around me if I drink milk.

Even though I was raised Catholic, I was never once molested by a priest. And it wasn't for lack of tryin' on my part.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Ohboyohboyohboy!

Honestly, y'all, I don't know if I'm going to be posting much of anything tonight. Don't get me wrong -- it's not been a shit day or anything like that. Au contraire, it's been a sweeeeet day, including front-row tickets to Stomp and a brand-smackin' new digital camera.

Friday, February 04, 2005

Blunderin' Bucky: And this is my lovely wife

Someone please get me a helmet before I hurt myself again.

When it's January in Michigan, chances are good that one will be up to one's weather-chapped ass in snow, and that one's extremeties will be mauled by temperatures that were never meant for hairless skin. So when one is offered a business trip to Florida shortly after New Year's day, one accepts it with an enthusiasm previously reserved for Tom Waits concert tickets and/or the second comin' of Jay-sus, whichever happens first.

So, yeah, I got sent to Orlando for some training, and Jim came with me. When we boarded in Flint, it was nine degrees and snowing; when we unfolded in Orlando, it was sunny and 70. Many layers of clothing were gleefully shed between baggage check and the rental counter. PT Cruisers were pretty new then, and we rented a black one with a sunroof, which was sooooo cool (and if you don't like PT Cruisers, I've got a grabby little sphincter for your tongue).

Jim was on his own for amusement during the day while I was in my classes, and spent some days fishing with a buddy of his who had migrated south some years ago. I'd heard lots of stories about Ken (he and Jim played hockey together on a number of teams back in the day), but I'd never met him more than in passing one time, so I was excited to finally get to hang out with him when we planned an evening in Daytona.

We were all set to go out to dinner with Ken, and we swung by his house to pick him up in the Cruiser. He got in the back seat, and he and Jim started talkin' guy talk (which means I wasn't really payin' attention), and I thought I saw Jim open the sun roof. I thought it would be funny to hold my hands up like a daredevil on a rollercoaster and let out a hearty "Whooooooooo!" as we drove down Ken's 25 MPH street. Yeah, it doesn't take much to amuse me, does it?

I reached up, and only I could find the tiny little what-I-thought-was-an-opening in the sun roof with the tips of my fingers. I expected to have free movement, because I could've sworn the damn thing had been opened, and as I puzzled over it, Jim reached down and flipped the switch to open the damn thing that I thought was already open. Before I could react, the panel slid back with great authority and pinned my flip-off finger squarely in place, all the while pinching the bejesus out of it in the bargain. Jim had no idea I had my fingers wedged into an incredibly small space in the first place, so he was doubly puzzled when I daintily screamed:

"MotherFUCKER! That's my FINGER!"

Once he realized what was going on, he tried opening the sun roof -- OUCH! -- and closing it (thing wouldn't move). The only way the panel wanted to move was through my finger.

Now, I've always liked to think I'd be stoic in a situation where I was suddenly trapped and experiencing pain, and possible dismemberment. Totally blew the shit out of that notion. Poor Ken was in the back seat, just meeting his buddy's wife, and here I am in the front with my finger stuck in the sun roof and spewing obscenities like somebody stepped on the devil's tail, and we weren't even off his street yet. Luckily, he reached up and pitched in to help after a chorus or two from me:

"COCKSUCKER! Motherfuckingfuckerthat'smyFINGER!"

I didn't care if they broke the fucking sun roof and we had to pay for it, I was so freaked out I was gonna lose the end of my finger. How the hell would I explain that to people? "Uh, it was an unfortunate sun roof incident. We don't like to speak of it." And then Jim would probably have to laugh, and I'd probably have to smack him, and I'd forget it was the hand with the tipless finger, and I'd end up hurting myself more, and it would be a vicious cycle of laughing and slapping, and I just didn't think I had the energy to live like that.

The ending is happy, and enables me to type this story with all my fingertips intact. Between the two of them, they were able to push the panel up in a totally unnatural way and this allowed me to yank my throbbing finger free. Maybe I should rephrase that, because now I'm strangely aroused. How about: I snatched my finger from the jaws of death. Ah, never mind.

Any way you flip the weasel, though, I'd be willing to bet I made some kind of first impression on my husband's buddy.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The straw that broke the camel's chair

I'll be the first to admit that my house is not especially furnished to accomodate company. The living room is decked out with his n' hers easy chairs, a table for our drinks, and a TV. Then there's the roaming decoration to consider, and by that I mean bad dog Snickers.

Snickers weighs roughly 65 pounds, but has it fixed in his mind that he is a lap dog. He'll jump up into the chairs when they're not occupied, but he's not too keen on jumping into a lap. Instead, he gets his paws up in your lap, and then scrambles his big-butt self on the front of the chair, a look of, uh, dogged determination on his face, until he finally gets a foot hold and can fully dominate the chair with you under him. Sure, we could put up the footrest and make it easy for him, but when did that ever build character?

Anyway, last night Jim and I were watching TV and he reclined in his chair, which reclined a whole lot further than he had intended. We both chuckled as the chair kept going back and back, and when he was nearly upside down, he remarked, "Gonna hafta tighten that spring."

That reminded me of the time, about ten years and three easy chairs ago, when his inferior chair betrayed him. I was talking to a friend on the phone, and the last thing she heard before I hung up abruptly was, "I have to go, Jim just tipped over in his chair!"

I mentioned the cherished memory to Jim and we had a few laughs. Then Snickers decided to insert his presence into the proceedings. As the footrest was abnormally high in the air, he decided it was best to board Jim's chair from the side, and he came around the arm and started wiggling his way up over Jim's shoulders.

In retrospect, we probably should have made him stop climbing, but if you could see the look on his face while he's determined to get up there, you wouldn't be able to stop him either, because you'd be laughing too hard. He finally got himself on top of Jim, and at first seemed actually prepared to lay down and be still. Oh, yeah, that's a crack-pipe dream, to be sure. The dog simply cannot resist standing up when he's perched himself on top of a person in a chair.

As Snickers stood, I could see the chair start to go, and there was no way I was going to be there in time to do anything about it. Jim, reacting more quickly than I was, managed to get his hands behind him and grab the wall before the chair went completely. As he balanced the chair, himself, and the dog, he looked over at me and grinned, as if to say, "Situation firmly in hand, madame."

To Jim's credit, he was still able to brace himself so the chair didn't completely collapse, but his hands looked a lot more squished against the wall at that point. In case you're wondering, I did finally make it over to help him right the chair. I'm just not saying I hurried, either. 'Cause if there's one thing that's funnier than a man tipped over in his easy chair, it's a tipped fellow with a 65-pound, surprised looking dog on his face.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Now he's steppin' large and laughin' easy

Jim's mom just hands him the TV remote when we come over on Sundays, so he doesn't have to beg her to turn off the Weather Channel again. It's a safe bet that, once the political talking-heads shows are over, he will change the channel to some form of sports programming. The advertising on these shows is largely aimed at a male audience, so you really have to do something to stand out in the sea of boner pills and beer being hawked.

My favorite out of all this mess is the ad campaign for Enzyte. You know the ones, with the maddeningly catchy whistled theme song, and the man and woman with the exaggerated, shit-eatin' grins on their faces? Campy and positively chock full o' phallic symbols, these commercials seem to be advertising a penis-enlarging pill. With the over-the-top tone of the ads, it's hard to tell exactly what the product does, but the spots are so hilarious, who cares what bullshit placebo they're sellin'?

Jim, his brother Dave and I were visiting their mom one Sunday when one of the Enzyte ads aired, I think the one where the smiley guy gets his new clubs, nudge nudge, wink wink.

Thinkin' I was really cute, I turned to Jim and told him, "Remember, babe, don't ever make your car bigger than the garage you park it in." I was counting on him to be a gentleman, even though we all know it's not a compact garage.

Fucker looked me right in the eye and announced, "Then I'm gettin' a LIMO!"

I started beating on Jim, of course, with his mother's encouragement. He finally stopped his chortling long enough to defend himself in the eyes of his family.

"Hey," he protested in between swats, "she won't let me park it out back!"

Okay, cocknozzle. Let's see if you ever get to park on the upper level again!

How to make a woman scream in bed

Poor Jim.

I don't know what I was dreaming, or what I could possibly have eaten before bed to cause me to freak out, but. . .but. . .

About 2:30 this morning, I rolled over in bed and opened my eyes in a bit of a quasi-waking state. On the other side of the bed, where I've found him for the last 18 years, was a sleeping Jim, mummified in the blankets with only his face visible. I'm still not sure what it was about that sight that triggered my reaction, but I totally lost it and kind of screamed, "AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

My kind of screaming kind of woke Jim up, and after we stared at each other for a stunned second, he began to laugh out loud, and I joined him, because I was pretty much awake at that point, and it was all pretty stupid.

Jim sent me an email this morning, remarking that he's never had quite that reaction from a woman in bed. He also suggested that maybe I'd mistaken him in the night for his evil twin, so perhaps I'd better cut down on my General Hospital viewing.